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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29308407">Don't Let Me Forfeit</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehRevving/pseuds/TehRevving'>TehRevving</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Heaven Sent [9]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Devil May Cry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bathing/Washing, F/M, Fluff, Making Love, Plot Twist, Smangst, Smut, Sort Of, Time Travel, Vaginal Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:21:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,133</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29308407</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehRevving/pseuds/TehRevving</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Saving the world is a thankless job and Dante copes with his shitty life by losing himself at the bottom of a bottle. One night, when he's far too many drinks in, he's visited by someone from long ago, someone he'd convinced himself he'd made up. He's far too broken to deserve their kindness, or their touch, and regardless of what they say, he's not sure that he can actually be helped at this point. </p><p>Anime!Dante x F!Reader. Second Person. Time Travel. Angst. Smut. Alcoholism. Relaxing Bathing. Making Love</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dante (Devil May Cry)/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Heaven Sent [9]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1851154</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>82</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Don't Let Me Forfeit</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Aaaand Rev is back with more time travelling bullshit.<br/>I swear I had a plan for this series initially, but I keep getting horny and having ideas and derailing myself. </p><p>Anyway, have you ever had a great idea but then you gotta write 5k+ words to actually explore it? Yeah that’s this, you’ll see what I mean at the end. </p><p>This fic is set after the anime, and references the events in it, but you don’t have to have watched it. For this fic I’ve got the anime set after dmc2 but honestly it doesn’t matter, I just mention some ages and stuff. </p><p>This fic is set in my time travel au, which you don’t need to read to enjoy this fic, but you should absolutely go and read them if you haven’t, because this whole series is just smut. </p><p>I also wanna put a CONTENT WARNING up here, because there is a very short scene (like a few sentences) where a drunk character throws up into a toilet. It’s very obviously going to happen, not described graphically, and definitely not sexual or anything. It’s 2 lines so I don’t wanna put it in the fic tags, but I don’t want it to creep up on anyone.</p><p>Anyway, that was a lot of authors' notes. Also thankyou to the lovely Muzz for helping with so much with this. And now, onto the fic. Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dante’s life is a monotony of waking and sleeping, with a few stray jobs and showers thrown in here and there. People come and go from his office, from his life. He supposes he could call them friends, but they never stick around for long. They all have their own lives, lives that don’t often involve him.</p><p>He’s alone now, like he always has been. He went and saved the world and then everyone grew bored of him and moved on with their lives. He’s alone, as he should be, but sometimes he wishes that it didn’t have to be that way.</p><p>Jobs have been slow lately, the city too focused on clean-up to pay any mind to demonic activity. Anything little bit strange is quickly dismissed as an accident, because it’s just more important right now to get everything rebuilt. Soon, it’ll all pick up again but for now, Dante just sleeps his days away.</p><p>He lies there, feet up on his desk, trapped in the sweet bliss between consciousness and dreams; that sweet spot where the sights and sounds are vivid enough to lose yourself in, but not so vivid that he forgets how shitty the world actually is.</p><p>He dreams of nothingness most of the time, dispersed with flashbacks of blood and gore and violence. Sometimes his mother appears, and he dreams of the softness of her touch. The gentle press of lips to his forehead, and the warmth of her arms around him. He dreams of that unconditional love that was torn away from him, the warmth that he’ll probably never feel again. It’s a comfort sometimes to lose himself in the memories, to remember a time where there were actually people that gave a shit about him.</p><p>Sometimes though, when the sky is dark and his mind is twisted by alcohol, he thinks of a different woman, of a different type of touch. He’s pretty sure that he made her up now, even though he knows that there’s no way his imagination could ever conjure up some of the things that he remembers. She’s just a fever dream, no matter how vividly he can remember that way that she slotted right into his arms, or the way that the sparking walls of her cunt hugged his cock.</p><p>On those nights though, well he drinks far more than anyone with human blood in their veins should be able to stand. He drinks until the bottles roll empty to the floor, and he loses enough control over his body to finally pass out into a dreamless sleep right where he sits. It doesn’t really help, the alcohol just tightens the cloying restriction of loneliness and self-loathing around his heart, but it does help him forget how fucked up he is, even if only for a moment.</p><p>He’s about five bottles in already tonight, he thinks. It’s not like he can properly count like this. His limbs are starting to go numb and his head feels blank, fuzzy around the edges. His eyes are closed and his vision swims with indecipherable shapes and colours. The patterns are strangely comforting, as he watches them dance across his eyes.</p><p>He’s halfway to losing himself, finishing another bottle as it rolls unceremoniously to the floor, when the door to the shop opens. The sound of the bell echoes sluggishly in his head and the colours in his eyes break into shimmering fractals.</p><p>“We’re closed,” he slurs, tongue far too big for his mouth, and language too much for his brain.</p><p>Dante hears a woman’s voice, but he doesn’t recognise it straight away. “Well fuck,” the intruder says, and Dante knows immediately that it’s not Lady, or Trish or Patty. He recognizes it though, and forces his eyes open as the shimmering patterns start to fade from his vision.</p><p>The lights aren’t on in the shop, so he just sees a figure, shrouded in darkness. A form that he remembers from his dreams. As the figure walks closer to him, and his eyes adjust slowly to the gloom, he thinks he must have finally lost his mind.</p><p>He must be hallucinating because it’s you, the woman from his fucked up fever dreams, standing right on his doorstep. His body comes back to itself as he stares. His head hurts from the sudden struggle of thinking and he feels feverish as his stomach suddenly drops out from underneath him.</p><p>Dante shoots up from his desk, and instantly regrets it. He stumbles, too drunk for his to properly work. He trips over himself, limbs heavy and head aching. He lumbers towards you, and stops short. He falls to the dirty floor, to his knees when he sees your smile up close.</p><p>You step towards him and reach out. “Hey,” you say softly, reaching out to touch his cheek, while looking him up and down, and then turning your gaze to the rest of the shop. “Shit,” you say, sounding surprisingly concerned. “How much have you had to drink?”</p><p>Dante doesn’t know, and doesn’t want to know, but it’s not difficult to count the empty bottles lined up on his desk. He just looks up at you as his vision starts to focus. He expects to see disappointment in your eyes, disgust, annoyance. He has to avert his gaze when he sees nothing but warmth and fondness; his chest aches.</p><p>“Damn,” you say softly, almost whistling the syllables, and run your thumb across his cheek. “Let’s get you sobered up a little bit hmm?” Your voice is calm and steady. “Can you stand for me?”</p><p>Dante really does try, but his legs are heavy and made of jelly, somehow all at the same time.</p><p>“Aright,” you say confidently, and then grab him around the shoulders. Your grip is firm, stronger than he expects. “Try again, work with me okay?”</p><p>Dante does, trying to stand again. Your touch helps, steadying him when he stumbles. You’re strong, stronger than you should be. He’s big and heavy and your arms shouldn’t make a difference, but somehow you drag him up and get him on his feet. You move underneath his shoulder, with your hand on his hips. You take almost all of his weight, practically dragging him across the floor. You groan slightly with the effort, but you manage.</p><p>Dante is in awe.</p><p>You drag him into the bathroom and flick on the light. It miraculously turns on. Dante hears you tsk quietly at the state of the room, but then you turn and help to set him down kneeling in front of the toilet.</p><p>The seat is already up, and Dante already knows what you want him to do. He leans over the bowl, while you start gathering up his long hair in your hands, pulling it back from his face.</p><p>“Do you think you can get all of the alcohol up for me?” you ask softly, putting your other hand on his back. It honestly won’t be a problem. Dante is already feeling ill from having moved around so much.</p><p>You rub his back, holding back his hair as he sticks his fingers down his throat and purges his stomach of an excessive amount of poison.</p><p>He feels terrible afterwards, but maybe slightly better at the same time. You keep rubbing his back, whispering soothing words that he can barely hear.</p><p>“Feeling better?” you ask him as he leans back and groans, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.</p><p>You help him stand up, and he’s already finding it easier to move. His metabolism is fast, and his healing will start kicking in now that there’s nothing left in his system.</p><p>“Go do your teeth,” you smile, “and I’ll run you a bath.” Your voice is soft and far too kind. You should be speaking down to him, chastising him because he’s a disaster, a failure. Instead though you’re comforting him, and his chest aches.</p><p>Dante manages to walk to the basin, splashing his face with cold water. It shocks him slightly and he takes in some deep breathes as he hears you turn on the faucet.</p><p>Dante brushes his teeth, uses mouthwash, washes his hands. He moves slowly, sluggishly, carefully. He doesn’t want to poke his eye out with his toothbrush or make too much of a mess.</p><p>He turns around when he finishes to see you sitting at the end of the bath, leaning against the wall. Your sleeves are rolled up while you test and adjust the temperature. It looks domestic, ridiculous, you don’t suit his disgusting bathroom at all. Something in his heart aches for just a moment.</p><p>“It should be a good temperature for you now,” you smile, noticing that he’s finished up. You gesture to the tub.</p><p>Dante isn’t going to refuse you, and it’s not like he has a choice after you’ve run the water for him. He’s not a huge fan of baths, but right now he can understand the appeal of not having to stand up, and having you sit beside him.</p><p>He starts taking off his dirty clothes while you busy yourself with managing the faucet. He can tell that you’re sneaking glances at his body, but he doesn’t mind. He ponders for a moment as he throws his belt to the ground, whether he should leave his underwear on. He thinks about the pros and cons as thoroughly as his fuzzy brain can, until he unzips his fly and realises that he’s not wearing any.</p><p>You don’t even glance at his manhood though as he strips and walks over to you. He puts his hand in the water to test it, but he’s not really sure why he bothered. The water is warm, hot but not scalding. You hold your arms out for him, help keep him steady as he lowers himself down into the tub.</p><p>It takes a decent amount of shifting to get comfortable, he’s a little bit too big for the bath. But the water is warm, and your touch on his shoulders is heaven as you pull him gently so his back is resting against the cool porcelain of the tub.</p><p>“There we go,” and he can hear the smile in your voice, “just relax and try sober up.”</p><p>Dante closes his eyes and leans back, moving slightly to get comfortable. He tenses up slightly when you place your hands gently on his head, but he soon relaxes as you begin to card them carefully through his dry hair. Your touch sparks against his scalp and it sends tingles straight down his spine. He can’t help but sink further down into the warmth of the water.</p><p>You massage gently at his scalp, starting with untangling the messy strands, tugging slightly to card your fingers through the knots in his long hair. Even the slight tugs feel good, and Dante starts to feel like he’s floating weightless and lost in the water.</p><p>He’s barely coherent, lost in your gentle touch when you speak to him next. “Can I wash your hair?”</p><p>Dante really does try to speak, but all that comes out of his dry mouth is a vaguely affirmative sounding grunt.</p><p>You seem to understand him though. You reach down into the water, cupping your hands together and collecting water between them. Dante understands what you’re doing, and adjusts slightly so that you can pour the water over his hair. Your touch is careful, and the water is warm on his scalp as you angle your hands so the water doesn’t run over his eyes. You repeat the motion, massaging water through his hair until it’s wet.</p><p>Dante whines lowly when your touch leaves his head for a moment, as you reach across him and pick up the bottle of shampoo. He hears you turning it over in your hands and hears you murmur to yourself with a sigh. “Of course it’s the exact same stuff.”</p><p>You open the bottle and the room fills with the light, lingering scent of strawberries as you lather it up in your wet hands, and then begin to massage it into Dante’s scalp once more. The scent of the shampoo, the heat of the water and the hypnotising movements of your hands, combined they lull Dante into a relaxed almost trance. His eyes fall shut, rolling back in his skull as tingles dance down his spine.</p><p>“Is this alright?” he hears you ask him from somewhere far away. He’s too far gone to reply with anything but a groan as he leans back, trying to push himself closer to your touch. His blood pulses heavily in his veins, and the pounding ache in his head starts fading away to just fuzziness.</p><p>He barely notices your hands moving, once resting on his forehead, protecting his eyes. You use your hands once more, cupping water and then slowly running it over his hair to rinse the shampoo out. You run your fingers gently through the strands, making sure that they’re all clean and Dante groans once more.</p><p>You repeat the motion with the conditioner. Dante doesn’t think he’s actually used any of it in a year. You massage it through his scalp once more and then rub it through the ends of his hair. By the end of your treatment, Dante feels like he’s floating, like he barely even exists anymore.</p><p>He feels much less drunk, just tired now more than anything. You let him relax, rubbing your thumbs at the base of his skull and then down his neck until he slowly starts to come back to himself. It’s a struggle, but eventually he manages to open his eyes again.</p><p>“Feel better?” you ask, noticing that he’s moving around a little bit more. “Do you want me to wash your body too?”</p><p>Dante should say no, he really should, but he nods and decides that he’s just not going to think too hard about it. He still wants your touch, your affection, even if he’s too proud to admit it to himself.</p><p>You reach over and pick up the threadbare cloth and almost empty body wash from the edge of the tub. You press your fingers gently against his shoulders, making him sit forward slightly so the broad expanse of his back is exposed to you.</p><p>You wash his back first, running the cloth up and down his skin with gentle movements. Periodically rinsing it off in the water. You press your fingers into his spine, putting pressure on the tight spots on his back, using the cloth to rub them up and down until Dante is shuddering with relief as his muscles loosen up underneath your touch.</p><p>You adjust your position so that you can reach his front, and then get to work. You wash his collarbone and chest, smiling at him as you lean him periodically to kiss his forehead. You wash his shoulders and arms and chest, making your way to the line of the water that sits just underneath his pecs. “Can I wash lower?”</p><p>Dante grunts again, because he certainly doesn’t want you to stop.</p><p>You lean up to get more leverage, and then dip your hand into the water. You rub the cloth up and down his abdomen. It feels good, his skin is sensitive and your touch is warm. He wonders if he’s actually being cleaned at all though, he means to say something, to make some quip, but then your touch reaches his waist and his brain short circuits.</p><p>You wash his waist and his hips, but skip his crotch entirely. You move on to his legs, moving down his body and then back up. Dante is feeling much more awake by the time you’re back level with him. He’s feeling more sober, more bold maybe.</p><p>You tilt your head at him, “I missed a bit,” you laugh, “what do you want me to do?”</p><p>And there you are, waiting for his permission, or his refusal. Of course he wants you to touch him. He wants it more than anything. He doesn’t deserve your touch though, he doesn’t deserve how kind you are to him. He doesn’t deserve how you just snapped into action the second that you saw him like this. He’s an utter failure. He doesn’t deserve your soft smile. You should have just left him to rot, to wake up pillowed by the floorboards in his own filth. But you didn’t.</p><p>“Please,” he says quietly, almost begging, almost hoping that you don’t hear him.</p><p>But you nod and squeeze more soap onto your palm. You rub your hands together to lather the soap up, and then slowly plunge them underneath the water.</p><p>Dante wonders idly for a moment if you’ll actually wash his crotch, or if you’ll jerk him off underneath the water. It’s been a long time since he had any sort of sexual urge, he’s not sure if those parts of him work properly anymore, after how long he’s abused himself with alcohol and unhealthy coping mechanisms. Your hand is soft against his inner thigh, and he’s too sensitive, too desperate to be touched. He resists the urge to flinch away from you.</p><p>He’s sure all the soap has rubbed off your hands, but you still reach down and start washing him carefully. First his balls, rubbing and massaging them with your palm before following the centre of them up to his cock that floats idly in the water.</p><p>Your touch feels good, too good. He struggles not to make his gasping inhale too obvious. You give him a gentle hand job, running your fingers up and down his shaft while he groans and struggles not to buck his hips into your hand. He starts to get hard, and in the back of his head he’s glad, though he’s disappointed in himself.</p><p>He’d managed to convince himself that he’d never feel pleasure again, that no one would want to touch him. He doesn’t deserve any of this. He puts no effort into his body, he eats junk and doesn’t even try, yet somehow he’s ripped. He’s useless, he appears put together, desirable on the outside, but he’s far too broken on the inside. He’s too much effort for people to handle, he’s better off alone. If he actually deserved pleasure and happiness, then he’s sure pursuing them wouldn’t feel so empty. Why is it that your touch sparks something inside of him that he can’t find anywhere else?</p><p>It feels good though, as you stroke his cock from root to tip. You do a decent job of treading that line between cleaning him up and giving him a hand job. He’s at about half mast when you speed up the strokes of your hand. You tease your fingers around his tip, pulling back his foreskin slightly so you can twist your wrist and tighten your grip around his exposed tip until he cries out.</p><p>You just chuckle and pull your hand away from him. “All done,” you smirk and then stand up, your joints cracking, to get a towel for him.</p><p>You help him out of the tub and dry him off. It’s a little bit awkward, because he’s big and tall and you can’t quite reach all of him. You get him to sit on the side of the bath while you rub the towel vigorously through his hair, smoothing down the strands with your fingers once you’re done.</p><p>You help him stand up, a hand on his waist to support him as you lead him to the bedroom. You don’t bother getting him clothes or anything, and his nudity doesn’t seem to bother you at all.</p><p>Dante’s room is a disaster, but you don’t even bat an eyelid at the mess. You help him through the maze of pizza boxes on the floor, and get him on the bed. You prop him up against the headboard, throwing pillows from the floor at him to put behind his back.</p><p>Then you climb onto the bed and sit beside him.</p><p>You reach out and put your hand on his forehead. Your touch sparks through the slowly clearing haze in his head.</p><p>“How are you feeling?” you ask gently, brushing his damp hair back from his face.</p><p>“Better,” he grunts in reply, his voice still not quite working properly.</p><p>“Do you still feel drunk?”</p><p>“Not really.” Dante shrugs and adjusts himself against the pillows.</p><p>“Yeah. You digest that shit so fast. I’m jealous.”</p><p>“You shouldn’t be,” he snaps probably a little bit too forcefully. He’s not proud of the fact that he uses his demonic heritage for his own fucked up vices. If you’d tried to drink even half as much as he’d had tonight, you probably would have died.</p><p>“Yeah…” you nod and then trail off.</p><p>The silence is comfortable as you adjust yourself on the mattress. Dante looks at you, takes you in. You’re just sitting there watching him, waiting for him to take the lead, for him to tell you what he’s comfortable with.</p><p>So he decides what he wants and leans in to kiss you. You let him, pressing your lips gently to his. Your touch is warm, and sparks heat through his body. It’s been so damn long since he was touched like this by another person. You cradle his cheek with your palm and allow him passage into the heat of your mouth when his tongue sneaks out to run across your lips.</p><p>You let him kiss you until his hands move to your waist. He flexes his fingers, preparing to lift you and pull you into his lap. He wants more, being touched like this feels so damn good. He wants to feel more of you, feel the heat of your body against his own.</p><p>But you stop him, tugging reluctantly at his hair when he doesn’t let you pull away. You look up at him, with a little bit of sadness in your eyes. “We can do that,” you sigh, “but I think we should talk first.”</p><p>Dante shakes his head and tries to kiss you again, but you turn your head to the side. He sighs and settles back against the pillows. “Fine,” he grumbles, “why are you here?”</p><p>He watches you think for a moment, and his heart drops as you answer with perfect sincerity, even considering how rude his tone was when he asked the question. “I don’t know. Honestly,” you say, “for years you assured me that I only went back once. For years. But then a few days ago, you told me that I went back again.” You push your hair back from your face, “I don’t know what made you tell me, or what brought it on. You said that it wouldn’t be pretty, but that you needed me.”</p><p>“You shouldn’t have had to see this,” Dante retorts. He should be better, he shouldn’t need time travel to straighten himself out. He should just not be so useless. He’s not worth the effort.</p><p>“No,” you say, reaching out and touching his cheek. “This isn’t your fault. The world has failed you. It’s not you.”</p><p>Dante shakes his head because you’re wrong.</p><p>“I don’t know why I’m here,” you smile, “but if it helps you, then whatever happens. It’s worth it.”</p><p>Dante says nothing, but he looks down, not wanting to meet your eyes.</p><p>“Just hear me out for a moment,” you say, your voice sincere. “Time travel is a loop right? I go back and I’ve always gone back, and that’s just how it is.”</p><p>Dante shrugs, looking up at your face.</p><p>“Don’t think about it too hard, but there was a first time right? The first time when I didn’t come back, and in that very first timeline, for some reason you decided that I needed to be here. I don’t know why, but it doesn’t matter. Because it’s done now and we just have to roll with it.”</p><p>Dante grunts, not really in agreement, but to show that he heard you. He doesn’t really have anything to say. He mulls your words over in his head though, during the carefree silence. Even if he doesn’t understand it, you’re not here because of an accident this time. He doesn’t know how you can help him, especially if you’re just going to leave him in the morning, or in the next few days. He’s just too far gone.</p><p>Dante realises that he’s basically sober now, as he looks at your face and realises that the world has stopped spinning. You look the same as he remembered, up close, with maybe a few more lines on the corners of your eyes and the edges of your smile. They only enhance your beauty, or maybe he’s just getting old enough now that he finds that sort of thing attractive. You look happy, kind, fulfilled, like you smile so much in your life that it shows on your face. He can’t believe that he’s the one making you feel that way.</p><p>“You’re older,” he says, more to himself underneath his breath than out loud.</p><p>“So are you.”</p><p>“How many years has it been?”</p><p>“Since I came back for the first time?” You ponder his words for a moment, pausing to think. “Seven years or so, I’m not completely sure.”</p><p>“It’s been sixteen,” he growls, voice dark with venom even though he doesn’t mean for it to be.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” you smile sadly and take his hand in yours. “I truly am.” Somehow, he knows you’re being sincere.</p><p>He can feel your fingers twitching on his hands, and he looks down to notice that you’re counting silently on them, probably trying to work out how old he is. He watches your eyes grow wide.</p><p>“The attack on Capulet city,” you exclaim, a little bit too loudly and his ears ring. “That happened recently, didn’t it?”</p><p>“Yeah,” he grunts.</p><p>Your expression changes, and Dante can’t quite place what it is. “Thank you,” you tell him. “Shit Dante thank you. I was there that night in the city. You saved me. You saved everyone.”</p><p>You sound sincere, excited and Dante realises belatedly that’s the first time he’s ever been thanked for saving the world. But then his mind catches up, and he realises what you’ve said.</p><p>“Are you still in the city?” he’s almost desperate, already planning how he’s going to track you down.</p><p>“Shit,” you murmur underneath your breath and then look down. “You can’t. It’s not time for us yet.”</p><p>“You don’t understand,” he replies, finding that his voice cracks slightly. “If you’re there I’ll find you.” he looks down too, and speaks so quietly that he hopes you don’t hear him. “I need you.”</p><p>“You can’t,” you start off strongly but then your voice fades. “I’m a teenager. You can’t.”</p><p>Dante can tell from the tone of your voice that you don’t just mean seventeen or so, that you mean younger. He doesn’t know how to respond, so he laughs, a deep bellied sound because of course the universe would fuck him over like this. “A teenager,” he muses, laughing before his humour fades. He’d always figured there must be an age gap between the two of you, because you’ve always been cagey about your age.</p><p>It hurts though, knowing that even if he wanted to, it would be fruitless to try and find you. You’re too young. Even if he went and found you, and interfered with your life, then you wouldn’t be yourself, would you? That scares him more than anything. “I guess we don’t meet on your eighteenth birthday huh?” he tries to make a joke, but the hurt expression on your face makes it fall flat.</p><p>“We both need to be in the right place,” you say firmly, with hope in your voice. “Until then though,” you lean forward and press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Don’t forget how many lives you’ve saved,” you murmur against his skin. “All of us need you, even if humans are selfish and don’t realise how much.”</p><p>You leave him with those words as you tilt his head up and lean in to kiss him. You kiss him slowly, carefully, deeply. Your touch is so intense, so much more like how he remembered you now. Your lips are so warm, your skin soft against his, and he wants so much more.</p><p>This time you don’t push him away as the kiss grows more intense. This time you encourage him, winding your arms around his neck and helping him when he pulls you into his lap. Your body slots perfectly against him, warm and soft as you nestle in against him like you’ve always belonged there.</p><p>He’s still naked, his skin completely dry now. The scratch of the fabric of your jeans feels good against his legs, against his hips, and his previously reluctant dick starts to twitch in interest. You pull back from him, just for a moment. You remove your shirt and reach back to undo the clasp on your bra. Then you’re pressed back against him, skin to skin. You’re so warm and soft, sparking against his chest as you slot back against him once more. You press yourself up against him, pressing your lips to his once more. Your ass fits perfectly into his hand, and so does the soft curve of your breast. He can’t help but grind the rough fabric of your jeans against his bare and now hard cock, shuddering at the friction.</p><p>He wants to touch all of you, so he does. He’s greedy and desperate. He can’t help himself. He squeezes the soft flesh of your breast in his palm, runs his fingers and his nails down the gentle curves of your ribs, your waist. You shudder against him, pushing yourself closer to him, your breath hitching at the feel of his rough hands.</p><p>He loses himself in how you feel. It’s been so damn long. Everything about your body calls to him, and everywhere you touch lights up with heat. He groans desperately against your lips while you pull on his hair and dig your nails into his shoulder.</p><p>You’re panting, exquisite when you finally manage to pull free from his lips. He moves his mouth to your neck, letting you take a break while he breathes the scent of you deep into his lungs.</p><p>“Dante,” you groan, and internally he surges with pride, he can hear how desperate you are for him. He bites down gently on your neck, his nails digging into your waist while the thumb of his other hand flicks at your nipple.</p><p>You start pushing at his chest, and he rumbles deeply when you press your nails into his skin. Fuck it feels so damn good. Then his back hits the headboard with a thump. He’s stunned trying to process what’s happening as he hears a low sound escape from your throat. It’s something demonic and it makes his cock throb, makes a whine leave his throat.</p><p>“I said let me up,” you smirk, maybe feeling proud of yourself that you pushed him away. “I wanna get undressed.” You scold him slightly, and then start to climb off his lap.</p><p>He’s running on autopilot, moving his hands to your hips. You don’t need to bother getting undressed, he can just shred your stupid jeans with his claws so he can get at you.</p><p>You move your hands quickly, ripping his from your hips. “Don’t destroy my clothes,” you chide him. “I don’t have any spares.”</p><p>Reluctantly, and with a short grumble he relents and helps you out of his lap.</p><p>You stay on the bed, just moving away from him slightly so you can move. You unbutton your jeans and slip them and your underwear off with a fluid and far too practised motion. Dante watches eagerly, mesmerized by your movements, and the way that more and more of your body is slowly exposed to him.</p><p>And just like that you’re completely bare to him and he’s stunned into silence. You cock out your hip and strike a pose, laughing, enjoying yourself. “Like what you see there huh?”</p><p>He nods, not really sure if he’d be able to speak now.</p><p>You’re a bit different than how he remembered. You’re softer now, sweeter and his mouth waters for you. He remembers how your body had been covered in scratches and bruises, his future self must be learning some self-restraint because now he’s able to see much more of your bare skin. There are only a few marks now, teeth marks on the curve of your breast, scratches on your waist, and fingerprint shaped bruises on your hips. There’s one scar that stands out though, a thick line sitting horizontally between the flare of your hips, across your lower belly. It strikes Dante as unusual for just a moment, but then he gets distracted by your thighs and the wetness that he can see glistening between them.</p><p>He must spend too long looking at you, because before he even realises it, he finds that your face has dropped slightly. “I’m old now,” you say quietly, “I know I look a little bit different…” and you trail off.</p><p>Shit, he can’t believe that somehow he’s even managed to fuck this up. He doesn’t know why you’ve said that. Damnit, you’re stunning perfection and his dick is hard for the first time in years and he’s salivating at the thought of being able to have you again. But he doesn’t know how to say that, instead he just lunges forwards and pulls you back into his arms.</p><p>He gets a hand around your hip and digs blunt nails into your soft skin so he can pull you closer to him. He pulls you to his lips. He doesn’t know what to say, or how to say it, but he hopes that his actions can make up for his lack of words.</p><p>He doesn’t have enough hands, there’s just too much that he wants to touch. You kiss him, your tongue practically down his throat while your hands wander across his chest. You tilt your hips, adjusting slightly and then suddenly the aching hardness between his legs is slipping against your folds. He has to tear himself away from your lips to gasp, to hang his head as pleasure pulses through his body.</p><p>You laugh and kiss the side of his face while continuing to rock your hips. He starts groaning, his hands tightening, nails digging into your skin. “I can’t,” he chokes out, but he doesn’t know what it is he can’t do. Can’t last? Can’t be gentle? It doesn’t matter because you just kiss at his cheek, then reach down between your bodies to grab a hold of his cock.</p><p>Growls rumble in his chest as you stroke him up and down a few times. You raise your hips and line him up with your entrance. He can feel the slickness of your folds against the head of his cock, and it jumps in your hand.</p><p>“Ready?” you tease him, squeezing the base of his dick until he moans and bites his lip. You start to lower yourself down, and he resists the overwhelming urge to buck his hips. You sink effortlessly down his length, your tight walls parting as he’s engulfed in your scorching, wet heat.</p><p>It feels even better than he remembered, the way your sparking walls hug his cock. The way your body shakes with the strain of keeping yourself upright, of keeping yourself together as you take him in. It’s like you were made for him, the way that you somehow manage to get him all the way inside of you. You cry out his name and tighten impossibly around him as you settle flush against his hips. He feels complete now, somehow, like something that’s been missing has come back.</p><p>You ride him slowly, adjusting to the size of him, to the angle of your bodies. He helps you move with his hands on your hips, struggling not to hold onto you too tight.</p><p>It’s different, so different from any of his one night stands, from any encounter that he can remember. Sex has always been about pleasure, about reaching that inevitable climax and the brief moments of relief before the crushing shame that follows. But right now, as something clicks inside of his broken mind, as you hold him to you with everything that you have. As your nails dig into his flesh so he can’t escape, as your teeth scrape against his jaw, his shoulder, he finds that he doesn’t want to come.</p><p>His heart beats as one with yours, in perfect synchronicity, and he thinks that maybe now he understands the once strange concept of making love.</p><p>Orgasm isn’t the goal here, though it’s inevitable of course. That frantic rush towards completion though all fades away through choked off gasps and moans. Your energy flows through him, your warmth seeping through him from where your lips touch his skin and where your hands grab onto him and beg him for more.</p><p>He doesn’t last, but it doesn’t seem to matter. You’re expecting his release, and your body shudders in his arms as his hips stutter out a muted climax that seems to last for hours. The only sounds in the room are your heavy breathing, the soft moans underneath your breath as your body pulses with aftershocks.</p><p>Then there’s a moment of stillness, of clarity. You look deeply into his eyes and Dante knows he won’t ever forget what he sees in them. It’s pure adoration, unconditional love. He doesn’t understand how you can look at him like that. You shouldn’t. He doesn’t deserve it, but he can’t lie to himself, he can’t mistake that kind of emotion on your face for anything else.</p><p>You don’t climb off him; you don’t stop him from moving. He stays hard and you just smile and nuzzle against his cheek, before starting to move your hips once more.</p><p>Dante loses track of how many times he takes you, but he’s completely exhausted by the time you end up tangled together, lying on the bed spooning. You rock your hips against him while his thick fingers play roughly with your clit. You’re completely at his mercy in his arms. Your breaths turn to gasps and whines as he picks up the pace of his fingers, his hips. You don’t tell him to stop as you shudder against him.</p><p>He bites down on the back of your neck when he comes. His hips stutter once more and warmth spreads heavy through his body. You cry out against him, nails digging into his hips as you shake in his arms and come around his cock.</p><p>He doesn’t think he’s going to ever be able to move again. He doesn’t know how long he lays there, still inside of you, basking in the afterglow. He can feel your breathing through your back and the beat of your heart through your soft walls.</p><p>Eventually you shift, pulling him to your chest as you settle down on your back. You play with his hair and pull him close. The position is strange, intimate in a way that he can’t describe. Dante can feel the beat of your heart against his head, the softness of your breast underneath his head. He can hear the blood flowing through your veins, and the rhythm of your body calms him.</p><p>He gets lost in your heartbeat, in the intimacy of your touch. He never wants it to end.</p><p>But of course, it has to some time. Eventually he calms down enough that the intrusive thoughts start to come back. He opens his eyes and wills them away, looking at the part of you that he can see from this angle instead.</p><p>He tried not to, but he’s added to the bruises on your skin. There are fingerprints now on your waist and your hips. The light is different now, and in the dim light he notices scars that he hadn’t before. Silvery lines that dance across your skin in waves from your hips to your stomach.</p><p>They confuse him slightly. They weren’t caused by slightly too vigorous sex, or from injury. He opens his mouth to ask what they are but as his tongue starts to move, Dante is hit with a split second of overwhelming clarity. Now that the haze of alcohol and arousal has left his mind, his mind screeches to a sudden halt.</p><p>He knows what the silver marks are, he knows what the scar across your abdomen is; and together, he knows what they mean.</p><p>He can’t stop the tears from falling. He bawls against your chest while you soothe him with gentle hands on his hair, by rubbing his back, and whispering far too comforting words. He can’t tell you what he’s worked out, there’s no point. He’s too fucked up for all of this. Too fucked up to save the world. Too fucked up to handle your sudden appearance and learning what awaits him in the future. He’s too fucked up to even survive for one single day without drinking himself into oblivion, yet somehow you trust him enough to create life with him.</p><p>Dante decides right then and there, as he wipes his eyes and refuses to look at your face, that he’s going to get better. That he has no choice but to get better. He’s been deluding himself for too long, convinced that the universe would send him a sign if it actually wanted him to change. Well, this is absolutely the biggest fuck you that the world could ever give him, isn’t it?</p><p>He needs to get better, to be the person that you deserve, to become the person that somehow you think he is. You deserve better than the drunk, broken, and useless sack of flesh that he is right now. He doesn’t know where he’s going to start, he doesn’t even have a frame of reference for how not fucked up people act, but he knows now that he can’t keep going on like this.</p><p>You’d said that his life gets better, all those years ago, and as time passed he’d just assumed you were lying, or that he’d dreamt the whole thing. But now he wonders if it hasn’t gotten better because he hasn’t tried to make it better. He reaches out, wrapping his arm around your hips in a way that he hopes doesn’t make it obvious that he knows your secret. He holds you closer and starts to think, for the first time in a long time about what the future might bring, without a dark cloud of self-loathing poisoning his view.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It’s me, solving plot holes like ‘why is Dante so depressed in 2 and the anime but more upbeat in 4?’ with horny. </p><p>I know the ending is a bit abrupt but like, I honestly just had to end it there. </p><p>What did you think? Too much angst? Not enough? Comment and let me know.</p><p>As always you can come find me on Twitter and Tumblr as TehRevving</p></blockquote></div></div>
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